


Symphonic Dreams

by ryukoishida



Series: Soul Rhapsody [1]
Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M, cellist!Makoto, exorcist!Makoto, pianist!Sousuke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 11:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5046397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his accompanist has to leave school for a family emergency, Tachibana Makoto – second year student at Musashino Academia Musicae majoring in cello performance, and part-time exorcist – scrambles to find another accompanist in time for his performance examination. He’d never expect to find himself asking for help from the always brooding but undeniably talented pianist Yamazaki Sousuke, who’s fighting an internal demon of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symphonic Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of an AU that I was working on with a friend, and it was originally meant to be a multi-chapter fic, but then neither of us are inspired or have time, so I’ve only ever written the first chapter, which I’ve still yet to post.
> 
> Music References/Inspirations:  
> 1.) Title and concept inspired by “Symphonic Dreams”, by Sodagreen (「交響夢」－蘇打綠 ).  
> 2.) “Icelandic Ballad”, by Tanya Anisimova  
> 3.) “Romance en la majeur”, Op. 69, by Gabriel Fauré

When he steps out of the physiotherapy clinic, the sun is already beginning to disappear beyond the horizon, setting everything the light touches in echoing shades of crimson, violet, and gold.

 

The repeated warning he’s heard so many times before from his previous therapists is turning into an empty, meaningless mass of words that has long lost its significance.

 

He first encountered the pain brought on by bursitis when he was fourteen years old; he was acutely aware of the slow-burning ache concentrated on his right shoulder while he practiced up to six hours everyday for one competition after another, and he managed to convince himself that he didn’t need the rest, that mentioning the pain to his father was merely an excuse to get out of the intensive practice sessions he was going through – that he was strong enough to push through this: the searing pain that almost brought tears to his eyes every night, the temptation to give in and tell his father, the desire to tell his best friend everything, the longing for release from the weight of climbing higher, becoming better…

 

By the time his mother noticed and brought him to a doctor, his shoulder was already so inflamed that it was impossible to hide or deny it any longer.

 

Phrases like “Yamazaki-kun, if you continue to overstress your muscles…” or “your shoulder will be a lost cause if you don’t let it rest properly” are nuisances at this point after five years of arduous cycles of relapses and therapy sessions. He fully understands what he’s doing and the possible consequences of his actions when he has decided to continue pursuing music in his post-secondary studies.

 

The park that borders the outlier of the Musashino Academia Musicae campus is about five blocks away from the clinic, and by the time he numbly sits down on one of the few benches available within the outdoor facility, the sky is nearly dark enough that the moon’s watery light and the constellations of autumn are beginning to emerge.

 

Other than the rustling of dried, rotting leaves dragging along the concrete path by the evening breeze of October, and the occasional calls of nameless birds in the distance, it’s quiet, and he hates it – hates that without a melody, his chest feels empty and shrivelled, like a leaf barely holding onto its shape and so brittle that with the slightest of pressure, he’ll crumble.

 

Music used to fill that void with bold lines and delicate colours; his father’s piano notes, before he was forced to retire due to De Quervain’s disease that tear his career apart, had been sturdily-woven constructions of skyscrapers and complex city mazes, while his best friend’s violin melodies conjured vibrant images of fantastical oceans and fields of wild flowers glimmering in summer’s light, splattered in a chaotic order of colours that only made sense to children unrestrained by musical laws.

 

As he grew older, the number of prizes on his shelf and the praises increased, but so did the high expectations from strangers and acquaintances. It was also around that time when the saturation of the colours gradually washed away into dull greys, and the crisp, vivid lines began to blur into amorphous clouds.

 

He begins to question the purpose of his playing: does he genuinely want to become an accomplished pianist, or is he merely carrying on his father’s dream for him?

 

He can hardly remember anymore – what it’s like to feel the soaring joy when his fingers touch the ivory keys, and how the tinkling notes that resound from the gigantic instrument taste so gentle and sweet.

 

He starts to doubt his abilities, and that only pushes him to practice longer into the night, and he can feel it too, the muscles and sinews groaning and grinding under pressure, surging beneath his skin and pulsating in blinding flashes of red, enraged.

 

It’s nothing new, and he thinks he should learn to accept that.

 

It’s been too long, he thinks.

 

Maybe he should give up, he thinks again. This time, for good.

 

A nightmarish thought that has been plaguing him for five years – the frequency and intensity of which have only been rising recently.

 

Amidst the endless spiral of possibilities and inevitabilities, the melancholic whine of what sounds like a cello curls into his thoughts, a shimmering furl glowing weakly in the opaque darkness of his thoughts, pulsing – not really the mechanical ticking of a metronome, but slower and more organic, sighing woefully but alive.

 

Probably a fellow student taking advantage of the decent weather to practice outside. It’s only a month and a half away from final exams after all, and most students majoring in instrumentals are scampering to perfect their pieces for the end-of-semester recital.

 

The simple melody pulls him out of his dreary contemplation – the whispering of bow against strings, a gentle caress carried by the breeze leading him out – and as he blinks his eyes again, he realizes that he’s been digging his fingers into his palms so hard that his skin is covered with half-moon impressions.

 

He releases a long-drawn sigh and leans back, eyes fluttering closed.

 

The solid, low hum of the cello drifts around him, and as the pensive, winding notes crescendo into something more aggressive, the accelerating melody spiralling into delicate higher octave as if one’s been lifted from the parched tundra ground and into a crisp blue sky, snow flurrying lightly past, he lifts his hands from his sides, fingers a little numb from the cold, and poise them on his lap.

 

It’s a familiar song – one that he’s just listened to recently upon Rin’s recommendation, a modern composition that isn’t as well known as the classics – but he remembers the contrasting shades of the theme, a conversation between the cello and piano, with no one instrument overtaking the other throughout the entire song.

 

The name escapes him for the moment, but he finds that he doesn’t really mind, just allowing his fingers to move silently from memory, the melody of the piano that only he can hear.

 

He can taste it again, almost – the subtle sweet bitterness of the tune, the harsh winter painted by the vicious staccato notes in the bass clef, the sudden urgency as his fingers move towards the higher series of notes.

 

The cello stops without a warning.

 

His eyes snap open at the sudden silence, teal irises dazed, and his breaths are quick and uneven as warm, white steam passes through his parted lips. His heart is thudding erratically against his ribcage, and he misses _this_ , he realizes, and he knows he can’t give this up for anything else.

 

When he stands up again and starts to make his way back to his dormitory, there’s a small smile on his lips and a tinge of warmth on his fingertips.

 

Hidden in the shadow between the light of day and the ambiguous haze of twilight, a creature that resembles a wolf prowls behind the unsuspecting human figure named Yamazaki Sousuke. Its steps are silent to human ears, and its visage – red, intelligent eyes that are hungrily trained onto the man walking a few paces ahead of him, a sneering grin that stretches wide and menacing, and a row of sharpened teeth and slobbering tongue ready to taste and devour – is that of a demon starved of frail, mortal souls.

 

Despite the little restorative powers the cellist has managed to instil into the stranger from afar, the delicious scent of dark desolation and cynicism still oozes from this human, and the creature anticipates a meal that will be most satisfying.

 

-

 

“Who are you again?”

 

Cold teal eyes glance up briefly to meet startled green as the man flips to the next page of his textbook, and Tachibana Makoto takes a small step back in alarm at the quiet hostility emitted from the man sitting before him.

 

He hasn’t looked away yet though, or fully ignored him, and Makoto takes that as a positive sign.

 

“U-um,” he stutters, fingers fidgeting around the notebooks he’s holding, and a stray lock of auburn hair falls into his eyes when he lowers his head in embarrassment. “Y-you’re Yamazaki-kun, right? Rin told me I should ask you myself, so –– ”

 

“Rin?” The dark-haired man’s eyebrows rise up in concern when his best friend’s name is mentioned, and then he remembers the conversation they had last evening when they met up for dinner in the campus cafeteria. According to Rin’s explanation, his childhood friend was having trouble looking for an accompanist for the upcoming performance exam because his partner was forced to leave school due to a family emergency. The guy had apparently asked all of his acquaintances, but like all students at this time of year, they were all hectically preparing for their own exams and would not have the time or mental energy to take on another new piece of music, especially when the grade of a fellow student can be easily affected.

 

Sousuke has always played solo – though he was required to participate in the university orchestra for his first year curriculum – and he’s never played accompaniment for anyone before. The one time he accompanied Rin’s violin performance for a local competition when they were in middle school resulted in a huge fight that Sousuke would not like a repetition of again.

 

“He could really use your help,” Rin had said, though his eyes are guarded and observing Sousuke’s reaction. “Makoto’s easy to get along with, and even though he’ll never admit it, he’s actually quite talented with that cello of his.”

 

“Cello?” Sousuke raised an inquisitive brow.

 

What comes to mind immediately is the strange, comforting warmth woven by the gentle and sturdy music of the cello that cocooned him in the park a few days ago; it had only lingered for several hours before the feeling dissipated like smoke while he laid in bed that same night, and the shadow of doubt – a poisonous but familiar presence – enclosed him in chains again.

 

“Have I not mentioned?” Rin still had the tip of his chopsticks in his mouth. “He’s been playing the cello since he was in middle school, but I think he took a few years of piano lessons when he was younger. You’ve probably forgotten about it, but remember how I dragged you out to Iwatobi High to see their year-end concert?”

 

“You mean that one time when you were obviously stalking Nanase and then proceeded to tell me you’ve quit viola to pursue Nanase – I mean, violin – instead?”

 

“Shut the hell up! Haru has nothing to do with this,” Rin grumbled while giving his best friend an irritated glare, but Sousuke merely shrugged with a teasing smirk. “Anyway, Makoto was the section leader for the cellos during his second and third year, so you can rest assured that his skills are up to par.”

 

“But that was a few years ago…” Sousuke knew his protest was weak, and he figured he’d already lost the battle when Rin came to him specifically to ask for a favour like this.

 

“Trust me,” Rin said in a lowered tone, claret irises glimmering in amusement, like he’s posing a challenge that he knew Sousuke wouldn’t back down from, “he’s only gotten better since he joined the orchestra here.”

 

Sousuke would have to take Rin’s word for that one.

 

“Why is this sounding more and more like you’re trying to convince me to go on a blind date?”

 

“I’m just trying to help out a friend here,” Rin leaned back against his chair with a sigh, casting a cautious glance his way before continuing, “And you know, it’s been awhile since you jam with anyone since you’re always cooped up by yourself practicing, so maybe… Maybe playing a duet with Makoto will give you more motivation in general.”

 

Rin meant well, Sousuke understood that, but he doesn’t work well with others, especially if their viewpoints on music practices differ too drastically, and he honestly didn’t know this Tachibana well enough to have a solid idea about whether or not they can see eye-to-eye. The assistance he’s supposed to provide might backfire if this is not handled properly.

 

“Not all of us have endless supply of energy and ideals like you, Rin.”

 

Rin decided to ignore his friend’s obvious jab.

 

“Anyway, you’ve already prepped your exam pieces, right?” Rin knew too much of his over-diligent habit for Sousuke to be able to outright lie about it. “So why not use the time to relax and have some fun playing with another musician?”

 

‘Fun?’ Sousuke thought resentfully; the association of the words ‘fun’ and ‘music’ is almost non-existent in him since he started playing the piano under his father’s tutelage at the age of seven.

 

“You’re not going to let this go until I say ‘yes’ anyway, aren’t you?”

 

“You know me so well, Sousuke,” Rin’s grin was too brilliant and Sousuke was too weak against it.

 

And, well.

 

Sousuke’s attention is dragged back into the present at the sound of panicked rambling, and he almost – _almost_ – chuckles at how flustered the brunet is.

 

“My name is Tachibana Makoto – I’m a second year cellist and I really, really need your help! You’re my last resort, Yamazaki-kun, please!”

 

He adds a bow as an afterthought, ears burning pink as curious students chatter around them in hushed tones.

 

Makoto wishes he had other options. To be honest, it’s not difficult to find another musician within his year who has enough piano skills to play an accompaniment part to start with, but those who major in that instrument have their own exams to worry about. He’d thought about asking Yamazaki as well, since he knows how talented the young man is, not only from Rin’s praises but from actually seeing one of his recitals himself, yet it is precisely his pristine and perfect aptitude that makes the already intimidating musician seem even more unapproachable.

 

“For someone who doesn’t stand out much, you sure know how to make a scene,” Sousuke tells him, and there may have been a hint of wry amusement in his baritone, but Makoto isn’t sure.

 

“Huh?”

 

Makoto raises his head at the other man’s comment and finally realizes that they are currently in the center of everyone’s attention in the cafeteria.

 

Sousuke doesn’t think it possible, but the cellist’s face turns an even brighter shade of red than before.

 

Something about the unrefined and clumsy manner with which Tachibana approaches him makes him want to laugh, and it’d be a lie if he claims he’s not the least bit curious about the cellist’s musical abilities, but most of all, he would really like to get away from all the unneeded attention from their fellow schoolmates as soon as possible.

 

An exasperated sigh escapes from his mouth, and he slams his music theory textbook shut with some sort of finality.

 

“Fine,” Sousuke relents as he stands up abruptly, his figure easily towering over the brunet, and Makoto suddenly notices that even though Sousuke is only a few centimeters taller, being this up close to the pianist only makes his presence more threatening.

 

“E-excuse me?” Makoto steps aside to let the pianist go past.

 

When Sousuke doesn’t make a movement to walk away immediately, however, the brunet tilts his head to the side with a silent inquiry, bright green eyes openly honest.

 

Sousuke ignores the stutter in his heart for that one brief second before looking to the side, a frown firmly in place.

 

“So, when do we start?”

 

The relieved smile he received in return from the cellist is almost too blinding, and Sousuke finds that he doesn’t hate it at all.

 

-

 

“What the hell happened?”

 

Sousuke has just round the corner of a surprisingly deserted third-floor corridor of the Second Building, which houses about fifty practice rooms for student use, most of which containing upright pianos, when he sees a mess of papers and textbooks scattered on the floor, and Tachibana Makoto is, of course, in the middle of the disarray.

 

“Yamazaki-kun!” Makoto looks up in surprise, his arms full of piles of bunched up papers and his cheeks are beginning to heat up. “M-my book bag broke while I was making my way to the practice room.”

 

Sousuke is about to make a snide remark, but he forces himself to shut his mouth because he doesn’t need to make the poor man even more uncomfortable than he obviously already is, if his reluctance to meet Sousuke’s eyes is any indication.

 

Instead, he just silently drops to his knees and begins to pick up the music scores, gathering them into some semblance of order though it’s proving to be quite difficult since it looks like the cellist has scores of about five songs mixed in the pile.

 

A title catches Sousuke’s immediate attention as he picks up the sheet carefully, noting the highlighted parts and light pencil marks made on the score.

 

“You know ‘Icelandic Ballad’?”

 

Sousuke doesn’t stop his motions, and he keeps his tone neutral.

 

“Ah, yes,” Makoto looks up with widened eyes, a little surprised that Sousuke is addressing him with an actual question. “We had to study 21st century composers and analyze their music for one of our classes, and Tanya Anisimova has always been a cellist that I admire, so I was working on a paper about ‘Icelandic Ballad’.”  

 

The dark-haired pianist doesn’t say anything for awhile as he shuffles the sheets he’s gathered into a neat stack, teeth chewing on his lower lip in thoughtful silence as he mulls over the possibility. Makoto figures perhaps he’s spoken too much; he has a tendency to ramble when he’s either nervous or excited about a topic, so with flushed cheeks, he continues to cram his papers into his already bulging backpack. 

 

“The other day…” Sousuke starts and pauses, and his gaze is solely trained onto the contents of the score, the dots and lines and symbols blurred into one another as the solemn yet peaceful music of that night revives and drifts pleasantly in his mind.  

 

“Hmm?” Makoto has stopped as he cocks his head to the side and waits for the other man to continue.

 

“I heard someone playing the cello part of this song in the park.”

 

“Y-you heard?” The tone of his voice might have jumped half an octave higher. Makoto didn’t expect anyone to be in the vicinity when he was practicing, but he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised since the park is a public facility open to everyone on campus.

 

“It was you, then?” Sousuke walks over and calmly places the pile he has collected into Makoto’s arms, teal irises glancing briefly at the brunet who can’t quite meet his eyes before he steps away.

 

“Probably…” He can’t zip up his backpack completely anymore, so Makoto keeps the heap of papers in one arm while he swings his bag onto his other shoulder.

 

Before he can reach for his instrument, which is securely propped up against the wall, Sousuke already beats him to it, and is now looking expectantly back at Makoto, muttering, “Come on. We’re wasting time here. You’ve only booked the room for until 6 p.m., right?”

 

“Sorry!” Makoto quickly follows Sousuke’s pace as they make their way to their assigned practice room.

 

As they begin to set up in the soundproof room, neither of them speaks, and Makoto can’t bring himself to restart their previous conversation.

 

He’s decided to book a medium-sized room for the occasion, which can easily fit two to four musicians with bulky instruments. The walls are lined with bland, beige-coloured sound-absorbing panels and a classic black Steinway upright piano stands stoutly in the corner of the brightly-lit chamber, its lacquered surface, though glinting slightly in the lighting, is also marred by fingerprints left by careless students who have used the instrument last.  

 

With the sheet music propped up and ready before him, Sousuke is playing scales to warm his fingers and wrist up when he asks, his voice a little louder for it to be heard over the mechanical notes of the piano and the flat perfunctory bowing of the cello, “Why the park? Isn’t a soundproof room like this more ideal for accessing the quality of your playing?”

 

Makoto transitions from bowing to pizzicato exercises, which thankfully doesn’t require as much concentration on his part, as he replies, still a little taken aback that the intimidating pianist is initiating a conversation, “I know it’s weird, but I feel more comfortable playing outdoors than being cramped up inside an enclosed room like this. Especially when I’m practicing by myself, the silence in here can be a little suffocating…”

 

The years spent playing on the little harbour town’s streets with his childhood friend Nanase Haruka has probably helped contribute to that habit as well – the freedom with which they could improvise on the spot as the sea breeze carried their music to strangers, the little noises, like cars passing by, or children laughing along the sidewalk, that trickled colours of life into their melodies, and the warm bubble of happiness he felt when he played to his heart’s content with little constraints, so unlike the structured practice they had to follow during music lessons and school orchestra sessions.

 

Makoto doesn’t mention this though, because he knows from Rin that Sousuke has a completely opposite philosophy regarding the practice of music.

 

“The peripheral sounds from the surroundings don’t bother you?”

 

Sousuke finds it hard to concentrate even with the slightest bit of distractive noises, so he’s always thought the soundproof practice room as a sort of safe haven.

 

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Makoto answers with a small smile though he knows that Sousuke can’t see it, and he thinks of the slanting sunlight scattering through the foliage of maple trees like million shards of red-gold stars on concrete and grass, the quiet rustling of the sparse leaves in late autumn over his head, and the distant calls of birds and humming chatters of students just beyond the thickets.

 

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to explain it too well; it’s something that you have to experience for yourself after all.

 

“I’m good to go,” Sousuke tells him, fingers flexing over the keyboard as he waits for the cellist to take the lead.

 

“Do you need to take some time to go over the piano section first?” Makoto asks. With the silence hanging heavy within the room once more, the brunet seems to have shrunk back into his shyer mode, his tone soft and hesitant.

 

“I’m good to go,” he repeats, a hint of impatience seeps into his voice and he almost regrets it when he sees Makoto nervously rearranging the sheet music that’s already been organized on the stand.

 

Immediately after they had left the cafeteria on the day they met, Sousuke had asked for the title of Makoto’s exam piece. It’s been almost a week since then, and Sousuke has had some time to practice the song in his spare time in between doing research for his western music history paper and practicing his own exam repertoire.

 

Though he’s more familiar with Gabriel Fauré’s solo piano compositions, it didn’t take long for him to acquaint himself with the arpeggio-dominated piece; within two days of vigorous practice, he was able to play the piano portion of the French composer’s _Romance_ as smoothly and almost as perfectly – everything from the arrangement of notes down to the song’s change of tempo and tone – as if he’s reviewed it for weeks.

 

“Shall we try playing it together, then?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

An apology is at the tip of Sousuke’s tongue, but he swallows the simple words back and perches his fingers over the keyboard in position instead.

 

“On four –– ” Makoto fixes his bow, back straightened and eyes fixed on the score. “One-and-two-and-three-and-four ­–– ”

 

Even from the first few bars, Sousuke can tell that Makoto is having difficulty following the tempo that the pianist has set; half way down the page, the piano and cello melodies have drifted so far apart and are so disharmonized to the point where it’s becoming a cluttered shamble of notes, tasteless and foul to the ears.

 

Sousuke stops playing without saying a word, but he doesn’t need to because the cellist can see signs of frustration in the firm line of his lips and the stern frown on his brows.

 

The brunet fixes his stance, his breathing still shallow and quick as if he’s ran a mile instead of having just played ten bars of terrible music.  

 

“I think we’re going to run into a few problems, Tachibana.”

 

Sousuke looks over his shoulder, expression and tone equally cold and unimpressed.

 

Perhaps Rin has overestimated his friend’s abilities all this time. Sousuke may not know much about cellos, but even he can tell that with what Makoto has just played, he would not even have made the audition to get into this school.  

 

The entire song is supposed to be played _andante quasi allegretto_ – transitioning between being moderately slow and slightly faster depending on the musician’s interpretation – and the cello part should have been played _cantabile_ – smooth and lyrical with a leisured tempo – yet all Makoto has managed to offer is choppy notes that are slightly off-tempo from Sousuke’s piano melody in the background, and the overall tone produced from this is as repulsive as hearing pop artists who have no idea what they’re doing “reinterpreting” old classics.

 

“Would you like me to tell you what they are?” He’s being malicious as hell about this – and Sousuke knows it – but having to endure playing accompaniment for a cellist who isn’t even capable of playing at this level is unbearable for him.

 

“I know what they are. _I’m_ the problem!” Makoto snaps, green eyes flashing fiercely and voice dangerously low, before the façade crumbles away, leaving only a visage of exhausted distress. “I know it’s my fault. I’m sorry –– I just, I get nervous and it messes up my playing…and –– ”

 

“And?” Sousuke prompts, now his body is fully turned towards Makoto’s sitting figure, chin resting in the cradle of his palm with his elbow supported on his crossed legs.

 

At the penetrating stare that the dark-haired pianist is sending him, Makoto shrinks back into his chair a little, which looks rather ridiculous considering his six-foot tall stature.

 

“And it doesn’t help that you’re an accomplished pianist in your own right, Yamazaki-kun,” Makoto tells him, a dejected smile that doesn’t touch his eyes curved along his lips. “I feel like a dead-weight when I play with you, and the more I think about that, the more nervous I get, and my hands and fingers just won’t coordinate as I want them to any more.”

 

The bow sits across his lap, and the unwieldy body of the cello is within the circle of his arms and supported by his thigh when Makoto holds out his hands as if to inspect for some invisible flaw. The fingertips on his left hand are hardened with callouses.

 

But they are no flaws at all, Sousuke thinks – about the hours Makoto must have poured into practicing every day, about the time spent in the park playing heartbreakingly beautiful melancholic tunes hidden by the woods, about the potential this man must possess if he’s able to perform Anisimova’s work to such degree.

 

Sousuke remembers the strange trembling of his heart – not quite discomfort but more like a desire for something, for a sign of change, maybe – when that evening’s cello music washed over him in gentle, stirring waves, how it tugs him back into the light.

 

By some twisted string of fate, Tachibana Makoto’s music saved him that night, and Sousuke is not about to let someone else give up on his watch, either.

 

“Then why did you ask me for help?” Sousuke asks.

 

“Because I don’t have a choice.” Makoto finally looks up, and the vulnerability in his eyes and in the way his lips quirk up in a weak smile is prominent. “Like I said, you were my last resort.”

 

Sousuke breaths out a sharp retort, “Then shouldn’t you – shouldn’t _we_ – work around this?”

 

“Y-you still want to do this?” Makoto blinks in disbelief, not sure if he has misunderstood Sousuke’s intention.

 

“Unless you’re ready to receive an F,” the dark-haired musician replies.

 

“I can’t afford to fail this class,” Makoto wails into his palms, voice muffled, and the action is so uncharacteristically childish that Sousuke has the strongest urge to chuckle, but he manages to reign it in.

 

“That’s what I figure,” Sousuke nods, calmly getting up from the bench as he begins to put his sheet music back into his folder.

 

“Yamazaki-kun?”

 

“I’m leaving for now,” Sousuke starts for the door, a hand already on the doorknob, “Practice for the rest of this session, but book a practice room for tomorrow. For this partnership to work, you’ll need to become accustomed to playing with me and to change that negative mindset of yours.”

 

What a bunch of ironic bullshit coming from someone like him, the thought comes surging out from the darkest depths of his mind, and Sousuke shudders as if there’s an invisible presence drawing an icy finger along his spine, reaching in for his heart.

 

“We’ll work on those ridiculous reasons that make you a nervous wreck then,” Sousuke continues, ignoring the strange sensation that is sending gooseflesh all across his skin, “I think I may have an idea.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah. This is going to be split into two parts because it was just getting outrageously long. It’s meant to be part of a bigger multi-chapter fic after all and I suck at doing relationship development in one-shots. I hope you’ve listened to the songs that are featured in this fic so far, because they’re really beautiful music. And I apologize for all the mistakes I’ve probably made; I never went to a music school (though I can play a few instruments), but I did have a friend who played the trombone in the university band, and I did some research on my own, so I hope it didn’t turn out as bad. Lastly, I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this, and please look forward to the next part!


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